Gwenna the Welsh Confectioner Read online

  The officer would not be cowed, however. “I did not comprehend you had not been informed. My apologies, but I am here on more important business.”

  In his haste and anger, Elias knocked over his chair when he stood up. “Let us go elsewhere, detective. This conversation is completely out of order.”

  Shocked out of her lethargy, Gwenna held up a staying hand. “No. Stay. I want to hear what happened. Elias, I know you are trying to protect me – and I thank you – but Johnno is gone and nothing is going to bring him back. I want to know how and why. Maybe you can tell me, detective.”

  In the few days since he’d rescued her from Onehunga, Gwenna and Elias had rubbed along together, if not comfortably, at least not acrimoniously. They would never be close, and probably never friends either, but she hoped they were no longer enemies. He spent most of his time away from the house – seeing Alice and working at the workshop, he’d said – so the police finding him at home was pure chance.

  To Gwenna’s mind, there was no doubt Alice’s stabilising and calming influence over Elias had changed him. He was a different man to the one Gwenna had lived with, but that in itself scared her; it had been so sudden, and she worried the old Elias would reappear if anyone crossed him. So far, she’d not seen any evidence of the violence returning, but she had noticed the effort it took him to control his tongue on occasions.

  He’d appeared that morning in a particularly good mood, so she had asked him to stay and teach her how he managed the accounts, the stock, sales and deliveries and all the other details he had kept from her. She had no doubts about her skill in making the lollies or any style of sweet-tasting treat, for that matter, but while Pa had taught her about weights and measurements, about cost efficiencies and the value of freshness, she had never had anything to do with the running of the business. She would now have to take into account the cost of running the home, the lease, the telephone, owning the neglected delivery van and caring for a horse, as well as managing the orders. The task seemed insurmountable, but the more plans she made, the more hopeful she became. She had so many ideas she was near to bursting with them all. Dragging her down – apart from her despair over Johnno and worry about how she would raise a baby without a husband – was her self-doubt after so many years under Elias’s authority.

  “Are you sure, Gwenna, love?” Bethan plainly didn’t want to know. “Some things are best left as they are. The less you know, the better, in my experience.”

  Bethan had good reasons. She too had lost a husband to an accident and, in truth, lost her son at the same time. She lost another husband to sickness and had to learn to live with that same son under, at times, harrowing circumstances. Bethan had adapted, learnt to cope with whatever life threw at her, without complaint, and in the process had lost herself. She no longer had any say over anything. Gwenna didn’t want that to happen to her.

  Two bright spots of anger coloured her cheeks. “I’m sure, Mam. I need to know. I have to learn to take control of my life. Please, Elias. Sit down. If you’d prefer, Detective Scott can tell me what he knows, or you can tell me. It’s up to you.”

  Elias began by explaining how the events on the day of the rescue had unfolded, including seeing a body, which he believed was Johnno’s. “I left it to the man named Bill to report the accident with Dan Davies, and what else we’d found, to the police. I didn’t consider it necessary for both of us to do so.”

  As the story developed, the detective appeared to relax. He took notes and occasionally asked a couple of questions, but mainly left Elias to do the talking.

  “It was only much later, in a conversation in the Tuakau pub, did I learn about the terrible storm everyone believed had caused the first accident – and when Jack Jones’s wagon had more than likely gone over the edge.”

  Sometimes Elias hesitated, and Gwenna could only surmise what detail he’d left out for her benefit – or could there be a more sinister reason? If so, the officer didn’t pick up on it, but he didn’t know Elias the way she did. He wouldn’t interpret the nuances she had learnt to read to protect herself, but for whatever reason, Elias was lying. Or at least not telling the whole truth.

  “In my opinion, the wagon went over in the wet and trapped the driver,” concluded Elias.

  “I concur with your assessment, young man. The wagon at the bottom of the gully did belong to J Jones Esq., senior. Mr Jones is currently being sought by the police for questioning concerning his dealings, which are contrary to the proposed new laws of moneylending. He is not a registered trader and will have to answer to the courts when the bill is passed. However, he has not been sighted for some time, except it seems by Mr William Cunningham, if what you say is correct. We will follow up this sighting with Mr Cunningham.”

  He folded his notebook, slipped it into his pocket and extended his hand towards Elias as he stood up. “Combined with our investigations and what you’ve told me, I believe we can now safely identify the person involved as Mr John Jones. You will be formally notified, Mrs Jones.”

  The two men shook hands before the officer turned to Gwenna and Bethan. “Thank you, Mrs Jones, and you, Mrs Price, ma’am. Sorry to have intruded upon you, but police business must be attended to,” he repeated for the third time.

  As soon as he took a step forward, Bethan jumped up to open the door for him.

  “Just a moment, detective,” said Gwenna, who remained seated at the table. “I was not feeling my best when you arrived, and I’m even more shaky now, given what I have learnt. However, if I’m not mistaken, at the start you indicated Mr Hughes had some suspicious activity to account for, did you not?”

  The detective fiddled with his hat. “I did, ma’am.”

  “And do you still believe it to be the case?” Gwenna noted the man’s embarrassment and used it to get what she wanted.

  “No. I do not.”

  “Then you owe Mr Hughes an apology. He did nothing other than to keep some of the more gruesome details to himself.”

  The man nodded and again extended his hand towards Elias, which, this time, Elias did not accept. Detective Scott dropped his hand to his side. “No hard feelings, I hope, sir. You will understand, I’m sure, I was simply following orders and doing my duty. I thank you for your co-operation and apologise for taking up your time unnecessarily.”

  It would do.

  “Thank you,” said Gwenna. “Forgive me if I don’t see you to the door. As you can see, I’m heavy with child.”

  The man glanced between Elias and Gwenna, flabbergasted and shocked at her effrontery.

  Elias smiled. “You assume incorrectly, detective. Twice. I am not head of this household. Mrs Jones holds that position. Good day.”

  When Bethan shut the door behind him, Elias let out an odd-sounding burst of air, which caused Bethan to squawk. Gwenna managed a small twitch of the lips at the noises they made, even though she had no desire to laugh. Death was no laughing matter, but it broke the tension that once again had surfaced.

  “I’m sorry you had to go through all that on my behalf, Elias. I never realised how bad it must have been for you.” Gwenna had again slumped in her chair, exhausted.

  “And I’m sorry you had to suffer that fool,” said Elias. “I’d have kept the details from you and Mam if I’d had my way. No woman should face such things. You handled it graciously.”

  Gwenna stared at him in astonishment. What on earth had Alice said to him? Never in a lifetime would she have expected Elias to compliment her. She was grateful he no longer hit her.

  “I didn’t thank you for finding him. I should have. I am grateful, and obliged to you.” For a few moments, she sat motionless. “I still can’t quite believe it – even though I dreamt it.” Gwenna had known something was going to happen, some instinct she hadn’t known she possessed. An inner sense made her try to stop Johnno from going. “Remember, I told you about my dream: the one where the wilderness spread its tentacles over everything in its path – even wagons and people.”
/>   If Johnno hadn’t done his father’s bidding that day, none of this would have happened, but he had and he’d been killed. All because of his father. She would never forgive the man.

  Gwenna’s greatest ordeal began later that day when the police arrived.

  As Detective Scott had indicated, two officers appeared on her doorstep announcing a body had been recovered, identified and was available for burial.

  “We’ve provided a suitable box, ma’am, but regret you will not be able to view the body. Where should we send it?”

  After the morning’s fiasco, Bethan nearly fainted with shock. Tillie, who’d hurried around as soon as she’d heard about the detective’s visit, supported her stepmother while Gwenna staggered to a chair. They all struggled to gather their wits to answer after the man’s bluntness.

  Eventually, Tillie came to her senses first. “I will ask my husband, Mr Thomas Griffiths, to contact you as soon as possible.”

  Tom proved to be his usual tower of strength and organised for the body to be sent to the undertakers, who advised the somewhat malodorous and miserable box should be interred as soon as possible. Following their advice, Tom arranged a speedy and private burial and persuaded the minister to present himself at the house to hold a small service. At the best of times, women were not expected to attend funerals, and there were no men to speak of, other than Tom. They didn’t even post a notice in the newspapers. There seemed no point. No one, Gwenna included, wanted Black Jack to see it and turn up unexpectedly. He would not have been welcome.

  For Gwenna, it was a day to forget.

  In many ways, Johnno’s funeral was a painful non-event. She did not have the luxury to indulge in the lengthy and elaborate funeral rituals of the past, nor could she afford to shut herself away from view for a year or more, mourning her loss while she could lose the very business that kept her going.

  She rejected the traditional symbols of mourning. She didn’t have a lock of hair or a photograph or any memento. All she had were memories – and few enough of those. And since she didn’t know when Johnno died, she couldn’t stop the clock. Neither would she drape the windows and mirrors after death.

  Feeling empty inside, she could not bring herself to show any emotion, and the others followed her lead. Awkwardness was the overriding feature of the day.

  21

  A new life within reach

  Late May 1900

  The tortuous weeks that followed nearly broke Gwenna’s spirit.

  “Stop fretting, little sister,” said Tillie, now a constant visitor to North Street, and Gwenna’s crutch. “You are the strongest of all of us. And anyway, you and I have a thing or two to prove to those snobby stepsisters of ours.”

  Disgusted that Louisa and Janetta had chosen to stay away – ‘for the sake of propriety’ – Tillie became more determined than ever that the Price sisters would succeed. “Sorry, Mam, I know they’re your daughters, and I shouldn’t speak badly of them, but they are no friends of ours.”

  Tillie assured Bethan Charlie could continue living with her and Tom. “Unless you want him home with you.” She had been as astounded as all of them with the change in Elias. “And I’m right gladdened to know Elias has found something – and someone, by all accounts – to make him happy in life. Maybe now he can forget his earlier troubles.”

  In the end, they decided Charlie should remain with Tillie and Tom.

  “He’s happy and that’s what counts,” said Bethan. “Between Gwenna, the baby – when it arrives – and the sugar boiling, there’s more than enough to do around here. I couldn’t give him the time he deserves. And Tom is good to him. Charlie needs a man to show him the proper ways, and so he can start to forget the things he saw Elias do.”

  “So that’s sorted. Now what are we going to do with you, Gwenna, bach?” said Tillie.

  Gwenna had no suggestions. Her increasingly restless unborn child kept her awake at night, and on edge during the day. “I still can’t believe Johnno’s gone – before we even started. He’s like a ghost in my head. He spent so much time away from me, with his father, I’m beginning to think he only married me because of the baby. Did he ever truly love me?”

  “Of course Johnno loved you. I know he did.”

  Deep in her heart, Gwenna admitted Tillie was right. And she had loved Johnno in return, but sometimes she didn’t know what to believe.

  It didn’t help that Elias refused to talk any further about the whole affair and spent every waking hour away from the house.

  “I don’t know what to do. I can’t afford the time to go into mourning for twelve months. Not now Elias has walked away from the business. I can’t lose it now.”

  “People will understand when they know. And I’ll do what I can to help.”

  Gwenna held her sister’s hand. “I know you will, Tillie, dear, but you have a husband and Olwen to care for. You can’t neglect them.”

  “I won’t. But you’ve talked and talked about bringing Pa’s dreams to life ever since he died, and we are a team – are we not? That grandchild of his you’re carrying will arrive any day now. Surely that’s more than enough reason for you to start anew – even if you have to flaunt convention a little.”

  Refreshed by Tillie’s comments, Gwenna rallied and began to make a few trays of toffee and caramels, but she just didn’t have the strength to stretch the sugar the way she usually did to make the hard sweets – not the way she liked. Yet between them, she and Bethan began replenishing the dwindling stock, adding a few chocolates and Tillie’s fudge to the mix to expand the range.

  Bethan fussed over her as only a mother can. “You must rest as much as possible, Gwenna. You don’t want those false pains to start up again. And eat – you must eat. You are so thin, my dear, you won’t have the strength to do what you must, otherwise. Try some of this soup, at least.”

  Bethan did her best to help with all the things Elias usually took care of, but she wouldn’t answer the telephone. Not that it rang much these days. Except for the few loyal customers who continued to place orders.

  “Thank you, Mr Green. I appreciate your custom,” said Gwenna, scribbling the order on a piece of paper as she hung up the phone. Word had not yet got around that a woman would be responsible for the business from now on. She counted on the men accepting her in this more enlightened age. Meanwhile, she needed to fulfil the orders coming in.

  * * *

  Tossing and turning in her bed on the first day of winter, she sensed something momentous was about to happen but, unlike her other dream, she couldn’t quite grasp its essence and awoke gasping. Sleep eluded her, and when the pains started she instinctively knew they were real this time. Unwilling to waken Bethan, Gwenna rolled to the side of bed and pushed herself into a sitting position. With the next pain, she grasped the bedpost and stood up.

  Shortly after, a gush of warm water flowed down her legs onto the rag rug. A random thought she would have to wash it next time the copper was lit flitted through her head. She wouldn’t ask Mam; it was too much to expect. Pacing the floor, she stopped on every second turn to peer out the window. She could see little. The cloudy night obliterated the stars, and the moon only shone its light briefly when the wind shifted the clouds.

  Ever since arriving in New Zealand, she’d loved the sky. Clear and blue during the day and with a fathomless depth at night, drawing her eyes further and further into the darkness, past so many stars she couldn’t name. Even the rain – and it rained a lot during the winter and spring months – fell differently from the soft rains of her childhood. Here the grass grew greener, the trees grew taller and the crops grew in abundance thanks to the sun and the life-giving rain. She loved her new home, despite all she had lost.

  Regardless of all that, there were times when she felt the strange pull of her homeland even though she would never return. There was a word for it in the old language – hiraeth – a special word, a word she’d never forget. There was no other word to describe the feeling of intense lo
nging; an unbreakable bond for a place you belonged to. There was something about the essence of that land, its mountains and valleys, its rivers and streams, that spoke to her, just like it did here.

  She whispered a wish her child would feel as strongly about its birthplace, with its generous light, its life-giving heart and indomitable spirit. One could only but thrive in this country. And thrive she must.

  As the pains became stronger and more regular, she recommenced her pacing, the floorboards creaking under her weight, a feeling of heaviness in her limbs. At some stage during her march, Bethan appeared. In the periphery of her mind, Bethan came and went. Hot water appeared, and towels. Someone wiped her brow with a cool cloth and helped her change into a dry nightdress. A teacup against her lips, a glass of cold water. She swallowed gratefully. Slippers warmed her feet. She couldn’t rest. Sitting became a torment, lying down impossible. Time passed and daylight crept through the window. And still, the crushing, squeezing pressure persisted.

  “Gwenna, dear, you must lie down. You’re exhausted. You can’t bring a baby into the world like this. Gwenna. Stop.”

  Through eyes stinging with hundreds of tiny pinpricks, Bethan’s face wavered in and out of focus. Hands touched, pushed; voices urged; noises swirled. Stars danced on the ceiling above her head. Her head pounded with the sound of a thousand hammers, and the solid band around her body tightened with each breath. Every sinew strained against the torment. Neck arched, hands clenched, her jaw bit down. A mist appeared and darkness fell.

  * * *

  Through the window, a faint glimmer heralded the dawn. Gwenna could hear a few birds singing their morning chorus in the lone tree at the corner. Slumped in the high-backed wooden armchair slept Bethan, but her snores hadn’t woken Gwenna.

  Turning on her side, she felt an unfamiliar tightening in her breasts at the sight of her newborn. The baby lay sleeping in the dresser drawer on the floor beside the bed, wrapped in the exquisite shawl Bethan had crocheted. A tiny fist escaped its covers and blindly rubbed at a pint-sized mouth and nose from which came the snuffling, mewing sounds that had woken her. “Hello precious,” she whispered, a faint smile crossing her lips.